Page 25 of Hot Girl Summer

“Mum, can you not—” I know she means well, but I don’t take it as a compliment. Throwaway comments like that are partly responsible for my sister’s illness.

Mum turns around and calls to my dad, “For goodness sake, Costanzo. Come and say hello to your daughter.”

If there’s one thing she seems to love as much as Kiki and I, it’s giving my poor dad a hard time.

“You know ma, one day that’s going to get you into trouble.”

“He knows I’m messing with him,” she says, with a wide grin. “Shh…he’s coming.”

Dad removes his gardening gloves, and, just as my mother had, pulls me into a brief, stiff hug.

“Where’s Kiki?” I ask.

“She’s having her lunch,” mum says.

My expression falls.

Kiki had been a dancer since she could walk. Three years ago, she started getting serious about her training. None of the family knew it at the time, but her teacher had suggested she lose weight to help her perform better. She hid her tiny frame under oversized jumpers, and used homework deadlines as an excuse to eat her meals in her bedroom, which she would take to school the following day and discard on the grounds. Her work suffered, as did her dancing, and eventually, she became too weak to walk. Before anybody realised what was happening, it was too late, and she was hospitalised with anorexia nervosa.

“She isn’t eating with us?”

“She isn’t ready, sweetheart.”

“Is it really a good idea to let her eat on her own?” I say, lowering my voice.

My dad sighs.

“Have a little faith,” he says. “If we don’t trust her, this won’t work. She needs her freedom back.”

Faith has nothing to do with it.

When Kiki was a toddler, and I was in my mid-teens, I had already started to lose faith in my parents when I realised they weren’t as wonderful and wholesome as I’d originally thought.

“She’s thirteen. She’s still a child. I’m sorry,” I say, lowering my voice. “I know we all want what’s best for her, but how do you know she’s not hiding her food again?”

“We don’t,” mum says, rubbing my arm. “But like your father said...have a little faith.”

Dad glances at his watch.

“Give her ten more minutes,” he says, “then you can go up and see her.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” mum says, with a warm smile.

Ten minutes and a strong cup of tea later, I stand on the threshold of my sister’s bedroom. The last time I saw her in her own room, sitting cross-legged on her own bed, is a memory I’d rather forget.

I choke back tears to memories of tantrums, grey skin, jutting bones and the scent of ammonia. The image of her now is a far cry from the shell of the girl she was half a year ago.

The past six months have been hard on everybody, and the only time I was able to see her was in a clinical setting at our weekly family therapy sessions.

I shake the thought away, plaster on a smile and make a choice to focus on the positives; the immense joy it brings me to see her finally wearing clothes that don’t swamp her tiny frame, the subtle pinkness in her cheeks, and the half-eaten plate of food in front of her.

“Hey, Kiki Bear,” I say, entering the room.

Kiki greets me with the widest grin I’ve seen in years. Although still seemingly fragile, she looks marginally healthier than she did a week ago. Tiny changes haven’t gone unnoticed. Her skin is plumper, and her complexion a little brighter, although she’s still pale. Setting the plate aside, Kiki jumps off the bed and into my arms.

“I’ve missed you,” I say, breathing in the scent of her.

The baby powder-like smell—a side-effect of the disease that I’ve grown accustomed to—has finally been replaced by her natural scent. Kiki’s hair hasn’t fully grown back to the lush, thick mane she had before, but I know these things take time to regulate. Basking in the sight of her genuine smile, I hold her at arm’s length. My heart is the happiest it’s been in a long time when I notice the newfound sparkle in her eyes.

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